


Miscommunication

by SrebrnaFH



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Father's Day, Out of the mouths of babes, Parentlock, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-06-26 00:15:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15651843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: Sherlock picks Rosie up from daycare and is faced with a Problem To Resolve.Little Watson is distressed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just one scene that asked to be written.

“Miss Anna is stupid.”

Sherlock looked up from where he was trying to undo the largest possible knot that a four-year-old could ever create on her shoelaces and regarded Rosie’s frowny face with curiosity.

“What kind of a crime against common sense could your art teacher have committed?”

A small huff escaped from the pouted lips as Rosie tugged on one of her short plaits.

“She said I couldn’t finish my work at home. And that one picture is enough.”

“One picture is usually enough for your art lessons, isn’t it? Sometimes you even continue to draw the same thing on the next day.”

“Yes, but...” the bottom lip was now out. And trembling. And blue eyes were beginning to fill with tears.

_Oh, boy._

If he had Rosie in tears in the changing room, some idiot from the daycare may think he was kidnapping her or whatever they thought in cases like that and no kind of document (he actually carried one, just in case) was going to save him from having John called at that blasted conference of his.

“Come on, little Watson. Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

“But...” she sniffed deeply (with a rather disgusting sound effect that attracted honest looks of admiration from the other children in the changing room). “But it was supposed to be a sup... sulp... you know. The unexpected thing!”

“Surprise?”

_Of all times for John to be away..._

“Yes! That one. And if I tell you...”

He finally pulled the resisting laces apart and presented the shoe to Rosie, who pulled it on and started lacing it properly, her tongue stuck out to help concentration.

“But if you _don’t_ tell me, we won’t be able to resolve the problem.”

She finally knotted the laces properly and stood up, allowing him to hand her the light jacket, as the June afternoon promised to be a bit rainy.

“I...” she sighed again, deeply.

Being usually on the morning (dropping-off-at-daycare) shift, he rarely had to deal with little Watson directly after her leaving the supposedly helpful institution. Her state of mind seemed perturbed by whatever the problem was and he felt suddenly underqualified to deal with that case. Sleepy? No problem. Grumpy? Experienced with grumpy. Hungry? Seven solutions, differing by the season of the year and her current preferences. In tears due to a missing sock? He kept spare pairs in his drawer, carefully ordered by the hue. He could even deal with sick, allergic and high on sugar.

But little Watson annoyed with the world at large was a new experience.

“I wanted to finish this” she finally said quietly and yet rebelliously, pulling a folded piece of paper from her small bee backpack.

It looked like a postcard. A postcard on which someone started to draw a flower. A rather nice rendition of a sprig of forget-me-nots, if he guessed correctly - especially when the little artist’s age was taken into account.

“A postcard with a flower, very appropriate, I suppose” he looked at her downcast face and pinched features. “Why wouldn’t Miss Anna allow you to finish it at home? And if she didn’t, why do you... Oh, you smuggled it out of the class? Should we ask uncle Greg to arrest you now?”

“B-but...!”

“ _Calme toi_ , little Watson” he pushed her chin up in order to look her straight in the eyes. “Why was Miss Anna so adamant about you _not_ taking this one to finish at home?”

“Because of the sup... the unexpected thing!”

“Ah” he blinked, trying to work out the vagaries of a young female teacher’s mind. “And why do you need two? If everyone else was making one?”

Rosie’s snort and eyeroll betrayed in a second how much of both nature and nurture went into that child’s upbringing. The eyeroll was all John, but the snort was one hundred percent _him._

“Because other kids just need one. And I need _two_!”

He pressed his knuckles to his lips for a moment, looking for the right approach. Little Watson _always_ had a reason. Even if he didn’t see it immediately, Rosamund always had a logical explanation to everything she did, even if that explanation might have been silly for everyone else (he always took her side, though, because, obviously, other people were stupid and they just couldn’t see).

“Very well. Why would other kids need _one_ of these and you need _two_? What are you going to do with each of these?”

Rosie pursed her lips even more.

“I wanted to give one to Dad and one to _you_.”

“That’s... nice?” he raised his eyebrows in an encouraging expression. “But... why?”

She made another face (this one was pure John, absolutely), that one that said “silly Sherlock” (or “you idiot” if John was making it).

“Because it’s a Father’s Day card?” she said so softly he almost didn’t catch it.

But catch it he did.

He could predict what the daycare employees did if a child was crying when an adult was picking them up. He wasn’t sure what they did if the adult was the one with the tears in his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more Sherlock and Rosie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like there is going to be more of that one, too :)
> 
> But updates won't be coming very often.

They walked to Baker Street in silence, Rosie slightly morose, Sherlock still deep in thought after her revelation in the changing room. As they passed a tiny park, he turned towards a bench from which a pond could be perused and picked up the girl, sitting her in his lap.

"So, we have a whole afternoon to finish that card" he ventured. "What do you want to do later?"

The girl appeared to consider his offer deeply.

"Can we bake cookies?"

"We can ask Mrs Hudson if she will bake cookies with you. Your father banned me from using our oven after our last experiment with gingerbread."

She scrunched her nose.

"But it was, like, ages ago. Before Christmas!"

"Well, your father has particularly good memory when it comes to cases like this. And a good nose."

Rosie stretched and watched the ducks in the pond for a moment.

"Can we draw some more?"

"Absolutely. Do you want to draw-draw, or would you rather do some colouring?"

"Can we use the an- annna- that book with the body?"

"Anatomy Colouring Book. Of course, I think we were now at the foot?"

Blonde curls danced when she nodded.

"Or maybe the one about butterflies?" she suggested quickly.

"You can do a bit from one and a bit from the other."

She burrowed into his coat-clad shoulder with a happy sigh.

"And what do you want to eat for dinner? Your Dad left several boxes in the fridge and I have been ordered to make sure you eat properly and not fill yourself with cookies before bedtime."

She sniffed a bit.

"Lasagne?" came a timid suggestion. "I like the one Angelo makes, but Dad's is better. He adds more vegetables to it."

_Ladies and gentlemen, Rosie Watson, the only preschool girl in London and surrounding area who thinks vegetables are good._

_John may not think he is a good father, but there are people in this city who would pay good money to have someone convince their kids that yellow beans are tasty._

"Sure, we'll dig out the box with lasagne. Anything else, milady?"

The little scrunched-up nose turned towards him suspiciously.

"What can we have?" she asked finally.

"You could get... grated carrot. Like Nana makes, with lemon juice and a little bit of grated apple. Or carrot sticks and yogurt. Or a salad with little spinach leaves..." (they had learnt that saying 'baby spinach' made Rosie decline the dish) "...or cherry tomatoes, or cucumber salad."

"Can I have two?"

_And here comes another of Doctor Watson's little miracles - a kid greedy for raw veg! Dear audience, here she is, a child who would rather have a bowl of cucumber slices with olive oil than a bowl of popcorn!_

"Absolutely" he stroked the little rounded shoulder. "Anything, little Watson. Anything."

"And you will eat, too" she said quietly. "Dad will worry if I tell him you didn't eat."

_And here, as a final act, comes the Completely Whipped Detective. Controlled by a little pout and a pair of round blue eyes._

"Obviously, little Watson. We wouldn't want your father to worry, would we?"

Rose leaned closer to him and closed her eyes, laying her head on his shoulder.

"Home?" she said with a sigh.

"Home, little one. Home."

He stood up, putting her tiny backpack on his free shoulder and heaving her a bit higher for better balance. She fell asleep before they even reached the park gate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quiet afternoon at home, some drawing and some thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think one more chapter and this will be done. Max two if the boys decide to argue or something equally silly.

They sat at the kitchen table, now covered with a layer of clean paper, and looked at the half-done card.

"Miss Anna will be angry" Rosie sighed morosely.

He pulled out the Special Box Of Pencils and the second one, of multicoloured ones that Rosie only got to use at home, placing them both in an easy reach for her.

"Why would she be angry?" he asked mildly, trying to work out the logic of both the child and the teacher.

"She told us not to finish these at home."

He nodded slowly.

"Did she say why?"

Rose carefully picked the multi-blue jumbo pencil and set to adding more forget-me-not's to the bunch already drawn.

"Because then the daddies would see it, and it's supposed to be a sup... that thing."

"Surprise."

"Yeah" she sighed and added another flower. "And now you seed this one. Which is wrong."

"I _saw_ this one, yes. But you know that we can make it OK?"

Rosie's frown was 100% Watson. Her aunt Harry frowned in the same way. Hell, it was a primeval frown. Probably some great-great-great-something Watson frowned this way when he prepared to toss a caber and some great-great-great-great-aunt Watson watched her children as they tried to avoid eating haggis, making that exact face.

"We can do it like this..." he cocked an eyebrow at her. "There is a perfectly good card now at the preschool that I haven't seen yet, right?"

Rosie nodded slowly.

"And this card we will finish today and take to school tomorrow, correct?"

Another slow nod.

"So, when the time to give the cards comes, you can give this one to Daddy, and the other one to me. This way each of us will receive a card he hadn't seen before."

Rosie scrunched up her nose and sat there quietly, moving her lips in silence.

"So... The card I have in my drawer at school, I give to you?"

"Yes."

"And I give this one to Daddy?"

"That would be the answer to the problem, yes."

"Hmpf."

She continued to add flowers to the big bunch.

"So Daddy will have to come back from his conference on time" she said finally.

He looked up from over the book he was perusing quietly and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"And when is that whole... card giving thing supposed to happen?"

"On Friday."

"On Friday, I see. Was there a notification about it somewhere?"

Rosie shrugged, so he left her to her task and went to have a look in the mail, just in case the teachers used the traditional post. Then he had a look at John's desk (covered in ordered snippets of cases in preparation for writing his book). Then he checked the coffee table.

Still nothing.

"May I have a glass of milk?"

_Yet another of Doctor Watson's little miracles - a kid who reminds their caretaker to feed them properly._

He opened the fridge, poured milk into a heating cup and placed it in the microwave (the one labelled "FOOD ONLY"). As he was replacing the jug on the shelf, something pinned to the fridge door with a bow-shaped magnet caught his eye.

 

FATHER'S DAY

 

All Fathers Are Invited To Join Their Children

For A Celebration On Friday, 14 June, at 4:30 p.m.

 

An address they already knew by heart was included (what kind of idiot would not know where their child attended preschool?) and a glittery heart affixed.

_All Fathers._

_But..._

John would be coming back on Friday afternoon - he was supposed to be on a train that would arrive at two. That meant he was going to come back to Baker Street, shower and change, because he wouldn't want to show up at the preschool smelling of his fellow voyagers (trains always stank of sweat, food and things Sherlock could, but didn't particularly wish to identify). And then he was planning to go there... Alone? Or not?

Sherlock sighed.

He would prepare - well, his normal everyday suit would probably be fine for a kids' celebration, if John chose to invite him with, and he wouldn't look overeager, should John...

He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled slowly.

"Sherlock? Is the milk done? May I have a spoon of chocolate in it?"

He shook himself all over.

"Absolutely, little one. And I will heat up some of that lasagne so it's ready when you are done drawing. Just don't spill the chocolate on your card, or we will have to redo it."

He watched the girl put the card safely away on a higher spot on the counter and then settle down with a cup of chocolate milk and a small frown (not the Watson frown, but there was still a shade of annoyance in it).

"Will Daddy be in time for the thing on Friday?" she asked between sips, not really looking up at him, so he busied himself with moving the pieces of lasagne from their container to the oven dish.

"If he catches his train, he should be" he said finally. "He was planning to be here well in advance."

"Mhm" she drained the cup and handed it to him, then retrieved the card and set to adding leaves and stems everywhere she could fit some.

He really hoped John would be there in time to give him some signal.

Because he was veritably frozen in indecision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For such a small story, this had so many positive reactions, so thank you all for clicking Kudos and commenting :)
> 
> [You can find me on tumblr here.](https://srebrnafh.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their way to school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this just asked to be written today.

On Friday morning, Rosie had chosen the blue trousers and white and blue striped t-shirt.

Remembering the planned afternoon celebration, he did offer her the choice of dresses (yellow one made by Molly, pink one bought by Mrs Hudson and the navy blue denim one that Harry had brought over 'from the Easter bunny') but she said she wanted to have pockets on that particular day. He would have to research the problem of feminine apparel for toddlers being designed without pockets at some point, but for the time being it would remain an unsolved mystery.

He managed to pull her mad curls into a semblance of order, but even early morning research into the topic of French Braid didn't help him with the actual execution of the plan, so he had to settle for two tiny plaits secured with pink hairbands.

She ate her breakfast without spilling too much on herself, brushed her teeth and was pulling on her shoes by the time he barely managed to locate his house keys.

On their way to the school he finally braved the topic of the elephant in the room and asked for Miss Anna's reaction to the second postcard having been finished at home.

"She said that it was not right that I took it home and that she thinks my Daddy will be disappointed today, because he already saw the card. I explained that Daddy is at a conference and I finished it with _you_. She made a funny sound when I told her your name and she asked who you were for me."

He held his breath for a moment.

"And what did you tell her, little Watson?" he prompted finally, a bit afraid his voice may break any second.

"That you are my godfather and my best friend" Rosie looked up at him, blue eyes with just a dot of gold surveying him carefully.

He felt his heart constrict, just a bit.

"Ah. That's... good to know, bee" he managed a tight smile, but he knew he could never deceive her, and of course she now frowned - just a bit - and was marching steadily forward to the gate.

At the main door they had to wait for a bigger family to fully get inside (including a pram) and Rosie tugged his hand a bit. He dropped into a crouch, to make sure they were at even height.

"Do you think Daddy will be on time today?" she asked worriedly. "Because the... this thing, it starts exactly half past four, Miss Sylvia said. And she wants all the fathers to be there in time to sit down and everything."

"I'm sure he will. He is taking a train, so there is no risk of getting stuck in the traffic, and then he will come home to refresh himself a bit and maybe change. I will have something to eat ready for him, and I'll make sure he gets here promptly quarter past four. Will this be fine, milady?"

She nodded seriously and reached out to him, asking silently to be picked up. As he stood up, carrying her up to all his six feet and change, she hugged his neck tightly.

"I actually wanted to tell Miss Anna that you are my sec- secodn... that thing that is written on my documents, because she was asking silly questions" she admitted. "But I forgot what it was."

"Secondary caregiver" he said slowly, pronouncing each syllable carefully.

"Yes, that thing" he felt her nod and her tiny plaits tickled his face. "I didn't wanna tell her the _truth_ , you know, because it's just for us and not for her."

He though for a moment he may actually develop a heart condition this way, quite soon.

"What do you mean, little bee?" he whispered into the soft, warm little shoulder.

"That you are my Papa" she said artlessly and hugged him a bit more. "Sherlock? Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying" he managed to squeeze out of his choked throat. "I'm just... my eyes are sweating."

She pulled away a bit and watched him curiously for a few seconds.

"U-hu" she said slowly, nodding, her eyebrows high on her forehead. Which was complete and absolute Watson thing to do and he wanted to hug her a bit more right now, but it was time to let go and help her out of her little jacket and shoes, and to hand her her backpack and water bottle and then suddenly he was left standing alone in the changing room as she sped through the locker room to stow her things and waved at him and he waved at her, trying to stop the traitorous tears before they attracted anyone else's attention.

_What am I going to tell John?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the next chapter will be the last one.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter count is now 6, because this became much too big for one chapter.

It was half past two and John was not in the flat yet.

And he was not picking up his phone.

Sherlock had run his fingers through his hair so many times his curls were sticking up in all directions, despite the careful way he had arranged them only half an hour earlier.

Finally he opened the location map again, checking John's position.

 _45 km away - 3% - 15 minutes ago_ said the map app heartlessly.

Obviously, John needed a new phone. The current one had been through rather a lot and the battery was not what it used to be, and Sherlock had probably depleted it even more with his incessant calling.

He groaned.

_ping_

 

> Can't talk. Reception sucks.
> 
> Train stopped in the middle
> 
> of nowhere. Something on the
> 
> tracks. If I'm not home by
> 
> four go to school without me,
> 
> tell Rosie I'll be there ASAP.

 

OK. Fine. Now he had an official order from John. He had to go to school.

Fine. Perfect.

But first, he had to prepare for John being there on time. What would be needed...

He glanced at the kitchen and the containers of takeaway curry he had picked on his way from Bart's. Food done. Tea would anyway need to be freshly made, or John would be unhappy. He would put the kettle on the second John would enter.

Short shower... check the tub for any forgotten experiments. No, everything fine.

John would need something to change into. He would probably spend too much time picking the right clothes. Sherlock could - and would gladly! - help in that area, but...

He glanced at the stairs up. Of course he was in that room every day - little Watson slept in her own bed and so he spent the last two evenings up there reading her current book to her before she fell asleep.

And, obviously, he had investigated John and his belongings the first time they moved in together all these years ago. He had been upstairs so many times he couldn't even count, but that... That was different. This time he would be leaving specific marks of his presence there.

He breathed slowly and deeply, bringing himself under control.

He could do it.

The room looked just the same as he had left it in the morning when they were choosing the clothes for the day. Three dresses still hanging on the knob of Rosie's dresser. John's bed made with hospital neatness. Navy and chocolate brown quilt covering the meagre expanse of the mattress. Yellow and light blue sheets and blankets on Rosie's tiny bed wedged in the corner. John's new, narrower wardrobe (he got rid of the older, bigger one when Rosie graduated from a cot to a proper bed). A few items scattered on the windowsill. Plushies in Rosie's bed, one teddy bear in the middle of John's pillow, covered lovingly and inexpertly by Rosie.

There was barely any floor to stand on in front of John's wardrobe.

_How does John manage to get dressed here every day?_

Something poked his hip and he sighed.

_No, John should not be living here with Rosie. Rosie alone, here, yes. Especially now that she is old enough to navigate the stairs by herself safely. We could fix this up as a proper kid's room. Move her books here, make it brighter, add all these things that children like, pictures and so on. But John..._

He shook his head.

It would all depend on how the afternoon would go.

It would all depend on John's reaction.

He swallowed and opened the wardrobe, looking for John's shirts.

 

#

 

Finally, he had completed a set for John (barring pants, he knew John would not be happy if he tried to pick _that_ for him, even though it made completely no sense) and had put it on John's hospital-straight bed, smoothing out the wrinkles on the dark emerald button-down just a bit.

He lingered there, trying not to intrude into that tiny room too much, but unable to leave.

What would it do to them? Would it break the shaky balance? Would it push them into another configuration, a different kind of equilibrium? Would it push them apart?

If there was something he could not imagine, it was living separately from John Watson and Rosie. If he even thought about John packing up and leaving - if he closed his eyes and tried to remove the colouring books from the kitchen table and the army-style jacket from the hook - he started shivering uncontrollably.

But there was nothing he could do. Little Watson made her decision plain - even plainer today than it was before, putting it in stark, child-honest words - and she would not be denied. But if John decided _he_ didn't want Sherlock to be included in the little family unit, he would move away, and there was nothing Sherlock could do to stop him.

He pressed his fingers to his nose and checked the time.

Half past three.

Map application.

_40 km away - 1% - 1:05 minutes ago_

Which meant the train must have moved and then John's battery finally gave up.

Just perfect.

He dithered for three more minutes before picking his phone up again. Steeling himself against the incoming ridicule, he quickly fetched a garment bag from his room.

 

#

 

The school was full of people he didn't know (and wasn't particularly keen on knowing), so he moved to the edge of the crowd and looked for Rosie's main teacher, Miss Sylvie. Fortunately, with her being reasonably tall, he didn't have to search too long and soon he was in the right corner of the changing room and Rosie was sitting on his knee "for a little talk".

"But Daddy will be here?" she asked for the second time.

"As quickly as possible, what with the bridge being washed away by a flood" he kissed the top of the curly head. "Uncle Mycroft" he grimaced "promised to fetch Daddy from the train and get him here at top speed."

She sighed and leaned into him, burrowing with her face in the lapel of his suit jacket.

"Come on, little bee. Sit up and I will fix your plaits, hm? Make them a bit less messy?"

She nodded, but still spent a few heartbeats pressing her forehead into his clavicle.

_Of course she needs reassurance. John was supposed to be here and not... not the backup. Not me._

His hands were on her back before he even thought of it.

"Daddy will be here as quickly as your uncle's car can get him across London at this hour" he said softly. "Now, do you want to be a wild thing with your hair all flying around your head, or do you want me to get these plaits back under control?"

She sighed and turned, presenting the back of her head to him. He pulled out her hairbrush (it was a wonder how the contents of one's pockets changed when one became a pa... a secondary caregiver) and undid the messy plaits, pulling the elastic bands cautiously off. Dividing the hair evenly in the middle he brushed it to the sides and pulled slightly back, catching the mini-ponytails in fresh, blue hairbands.

"This should be enough, hmm? Or do you want me to redo the plaits?"

She shook her head, making the ends of the curly strands dance.

"Good like this" she stretched back and smiled at him. "Thank-you-very-much" she scrunched her nose. "I have to go, the play starts in a moment. Will you make sure Daddy has a good spot?"

"Absolutely. Now, run."

"It's so good to see a father so invested" a new voice came from the door behind him and he turned a bit too quickly on the chair. A busty redhead approached him, hand outstretched. "Hi, I'm Claire, Toby's mother. And you are Rosie's father, I'm guessing."

"Ah... I..."

He couldn't. He really couldn't. But Rosie was listening, he saw her standing in the corridor.

"I'm Rosie's godfather" he decided finally and winked quickly at the girl. _Our thing, not everyone else's._ He noted with relief that she smiled before she ran to meet the rest of her group.

Claire made a surprised 'o' with her perfectly rounded, red-painted mouth.

"Her father is on a business trip and he was delayed, so I came to make sure she doesn't feel..." he shrugged.

"Ah, yes. Business trips. Dreadful things. So good of you to help her parents then. Not every mother can take time off like I did. That's the beauty of being my own boss!"

He honestly wished for her child to start crying. For whatever reason. He really needed her to just _leave_.

He only smiled in a slightly strained way as Claire was patting his sleeve and praising his efforts while pulling him towards the auditorium. Prying her fingers away from the thin wool of his jacket was more of a challenge than he expected and she remained completely oblivious to his discomfort.

And she was chatting. About _baseball_ of all things. Little League. Tee-ball.

_As if._

He would have to make sure she never approached them again with that idea.

He could watch rugby (especially when Rosie joined them on the couch and John was commenting), he could watch football (especially if it was John teaching Rosie how to dribble her miniature ball) and he could enjoy certain aspects of equestrianism. He was looking forward to taking Rosie for riding lessons that summer, having already established good contact with an owner of a Shetland riding school just outside London.

Well, that was until Rosie decided to upset the status quo of their little pseudo-family.

Fortunately for his sanity, Toby managed to get into a fight with another boy, so Claire released his arm and waded in. He rubbed his arm to regain some feeling and found himself a spot near the back, blocking the seat next to it, to keep it for John.

He checked the time and his phone.

Quarter past four and no new texts.

Hopefully whatever the plan for the entertainment, John would get there in time for the cards to be presented. He _needed_ John's input on that... that whole _thing_.

He shook slightly.

Whatever John's decision, he would abide by it, as long as the decision wasn't to move out.

Yet, they would have to reconsider the living arrangements, because a grown-up man couldn't possibly live like that, in one room no bigger than a shoebox, with a toddler...

There was some attic space on both sides of the room, maybe some arrangement could be made, to redo the whole volume into two rooms?

He could move downstairs, to C, letting John have his bedroom.

He could... No. No. That option was definitely not something he wanted to consider.

Moving to the C apartment (where his lab equipment now dwelt, together with the second fridge and two shelving units of preserved specimens) would be the best option.

 

#

 

The play started when he finally received a text.

 

_ETA 15 minutes. Awful traffic._

 

Ah, Anthea probably had a powerbank for John in her bag of tricks. One thing he didn't think of when he was packing a small bag of necessary items for his friend.

Children were singing a song about conkers.

_Dear heavens, why._

"Singing" was a very, very loose description. Apparently whoever was teaching them was a religious follower of the "sing louder, it sounds better" school of choir directing.

He saw Rosie's grimace tighten when the noisy group hit some particularly high and yet discordant note. Yes, music lessons. Individual ones.

The song ended, another one was tortured and then some tiny, lisping boy was trying to recite a poem. Sherlock was unsure what the poem was about, but the boy seemed rather pleased with himself at the end, so a polite round of applause sent him back to his group.

Finally, the card ceremony (whatever it was supposed to be) arrived. Thankfully children seemed to be arranged alphabetically, so Rosie would be at the very end of her group.

"Excuse me, is this seat..."

"Taken, sorry" he blocked the man's way with his leg before he even thought about it. Only a small, familiar laughter made him glance up. "John!"

From the middle of the scene, Rosie Watson beamed like a little sun.

"Sit, sit" he whispered and moved to the chair he had been guarding, letting John sit on the one he vacated.

His flatmate flashed him a tired smile.

"Thank you for the clothes" he whispered. "I felt _grimy_ after that train ride."

"Obviously" he smiled, just slightly. "John, there is something we have to..."

"Rosie, your turn."

And suddenly there was no time. Suddenly the little blue and golden girl was walking towards the middle of the scene, holding two cards and he felt tightness in his chest robbing him of his breath.

Rosie was standing there, not saying anything, and John was rising with a slightly tired sigh, walking up to her and taking the card she had handed to him.

And then John was looking at the second card.

Sherlock wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, to avoid seeing John's face filling with anger. He managed to keep his gaze on the floor.

"Sherlock?"

A slight touch on his wrist.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk, at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for following this little story and for the lovely comments.  
> I hope you will like the finale :)

He looked up, slowly.

And there was Rosie, held up by John, handing him the second card, covered by a careful rendition of pink daisies.

"Sherlock" she repeated after her father, looking at him in dismay. "Your card."

He nodded and reached out for the piece of paper, not taking his eyes off Rosie, and very very carefully _not_ looking at John.

"Thank you, little bee" he managed, finally. "This is lovely."

Mutely, she stretched towards him and he fluidly took her from John's arms, her head going on his shoulder as if it was made to fit there.

"John, I... I never put her up to..."

"I know."

"I... You... You know?" he hugged Rosie closer by pure instinct. "What..."

John took a look around them, at other parents - some watching the scene, but some watching _them_.

"Not here. Home?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded. Home was 221B, it was Rosie, it was John and telly and tea and exactly what he needed right now.

 

#

 

Rosie fell asleep (on Sherlock, drooling all over his shoulder) somewhere on the way downstairs and didn't wake up when strapped into her car seat and then freed from it, so once at home, they just divested her of her shoes, jacket and trousers, and covered her with a blanket, letting her sleep as she was. Sherlock left John in the upper room and stood in the kitchen, trying to put together some kind of explanation.

"I suppose we need to talk."

He jerked and looked up from where he was picking at a burnt spot on the tabletop.

"Tea?"

"Yes, but not as a misdirection device. There is something that is eating at you and we need to talk about it."

He steeled himself for incoming accusations.

"Rosie. The card."

John nodded slowly.

"I... She..." he couldn't find the right word and ended up blurting out simply "Are you OK with this?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"Why wouldn't I? It's our reality now."

"But... I didn't want to... to usurp..."

"Sherlock."

Suddenly, there were two warm, strong hands pulling his face up from where he had hidden it in his palms.

"It's fine" John said slowly, deliberately. "Rosie wanted you to have the card. You have the card. I'm not angry at either of you. I have no reason to be angry at either of you. Now, tell me what is going on in that head of yours, hmm?"

Sherlock swallowed something heavy that had lodged itself in his throat.

"But... you are _not unhappy_ that she... she did this, but are you _happy_ she did this?"

John frowned, for just a moment.

"Oh" he said, so softly and sadly that Sherlock's heart jumped. "Oh, Sherlock. No. I'm very happy. She sees you as... as someone special in her life. You _are_ special, to both of us."

"But she called me 'Papa', John" he blurted out finally, unable to stop and think for a moment, so he squeezed his eyes shut to avoid John's piercing gaze. "We never even considered..."

A hug. He had been pulled into a hug, a full-body hug by John Watson.

"Sherlock, oh, Sherlock."

There was something wet on John's cheek as he brushed by it.

"You _are_ her Papa - if you want to. It _is_ you. It's not like... like I can see myself doing this with someone else. But if you feel like it's too much, we can talk to her - explain..."

_No!_

He shook his head and again found his face held in John's hands.

"If you want this, and Rosie wants this, and I am happy with that... Then why not? Is there anyone who would dare to tell us to do it differently?"

He frowned, trying to find correct words to voice the doubt that bloomed in his stomach ever since that morning.

"I am _not_ angry. And... I've updated the documents at the preschool, if it helps - you are now listed as her primary contact, together with me. I stood over the secretary and waited as long as it took her to update the forms. Apparently the last two times I did it, the update magically disappeared from the system."

Sherlock's heart stuttered.

"You... you what?"

John rolled his eyes, just a bit.

"I asked them to update the forms before Christmas, I wanted... I wanted to tell you, as a kind of a Christmas gift. But somehow they lost the change and then Rosie was sick, then you were sick... and I didn't have a chance to do it properly. Then I tried before Easter and they managed to lose it again..."

"...but then there was the robbery at the British Museum and the subway predator and..."

"So I used the occasion and went there today. I accosted the secretary when you were dressing Rosie and told her that whatever she thinks, I'm going to straighten this out."

He felt something letting go inside him and he sagged - just slightly - against John's sturdy frame.

"Come on, let's sit."

"Tea...?" he suggested weakly.

"Sod tea. You've been letting this terrify you for how long?"

John pulled him around the coffee table and down, down... not sitting. Lying down. His head on a pillow in John's lap.

"Since Wednesday" he finally admitted. "She told me she needed to make two cards for Father's Day and I was terrified you would..."

John's hand on his shoulder, pulling him closer.

"I would be mad?"

"That you'd move out" he bit his lip and looked up. That was an unusual perspective from which to view John.

"And you've been living with this for the last forty-eight hours or so. So I suppose you haven't had a wink of sleep and you hardly ate - by the contents of the sink, you tried surviving on tea and eggs, if only to convince Rosie to eat her breakfast, too?"

He shrugged, just a bit.

"Now, I will order something reasonably filling - with meat, vegetables and a heap of salad - and you will eat everything I put on your plate, is this clear?"

He blinked at the unexpectedly firm order.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes" he nodded and looked up again. John was watching him with a small, somewhat cautious smile. "The Indian place, the new one? They had that lovely sauce..."

John was already pulling their thick stack of takeout menus closer and unlocking the phone. The right leaflet out, he picked the number and...

Sherlock felt the thick, strong fingers carding through his curls cautiously. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation, as John's voice travelled down to him, vibrations muted by the pillow.

"They will deliver in an hour. You can take a nap now. I'll wake you when it arrives, OK?"

"But, John..." he wanted to say something more, trying to explain the whole situation.

A hand, cupping his cheek, stopped him.

"It's all fine. She blindsided you with this, didn't she?"

"Completely," he had to admit.

"What did she say?"

"She... she smuggled a card out of her art lesson, John. Her teacher didn't understand why Rosie felt she needed to make two cards, and so our little bee committed a serious crime of just taking the card away in her backpack" he felt John's silent laughter in the shiver that went down his frame. "She explained to me she needed to make two because the second one was for me. And she looked at me as if I was too stupid to be allowed outside unsupervised when I didn't know it was supposed to be for Father's Day. I... I could barely breathe. I never expected her to..."

"I know" John's fingers were back in his hair. "And then what?"

"Well, I explained that it is not a problem that she did it - Miss Anna didn't want them taking the cards home to avoid spoiling the surprise - because she could give _you_ the card she finished at home and give me the _other one_..."

"Ah. Smart."

"Well, I seem to remember there were some people in my life who called me _brilliant_..."

"And refreshingly modest. So, what happened next?"

Sherlock grinned, just slightly.

"We survived Thursday - although the blue wax crayon didn't, so we went out to buy a new box. She will use them up anyway."

"Do I even want... No, I don't. And then?"

Sherlock sighed.

"And today in the morning she said that she told Miss Anna I'm her godfather and her best friend."

John's hand stalled for a moment.

"Ah. Well, she is with the two of us so much..."

"No, I know. She should have some friends her age, absolutely. That's not the point. It's... later she said she told _Miss Anna_ that, to stop her from asking more questions. And she told me, like... like it was obvious, that I'm her Papa. And left me like that, in the hall. I..."

He felt tears prickling the corners of his eyes again.

"Oh."

And he found himself hauled up, up, into John Watson's strong, dependable arms.

"And you've just spent the whole day fretting that I would somehow be angry because my daughter had decided you were her other parent? And that I would be what, jealous? Or...?"

"Feel threatened" Sherlock managed to interject. "Or think I was being presumptuous. Or interfering. Or that I was trying to claim some kind of relationship that you'd never..."

He heard his own whistling, on-the-verge-of-tears breath in the silence of the room.

John coughed.

_Oh._

John's own state wasn't all that much better. There were tears hanging at the ends of these thick, blonde eyelashes.

"I..." John paused, blinked - a tear fell, marking Sherlock's shirt with moisture - and licked his lips. "I don't think you are claiming anything you don't already have, Sherlock. In her mind, you are her father. And the same... in mine. Like I told you, I can't imagine doing this-- this whole family thing, with anyone else. There is nobody else for me."

John leaned back, his hand going back into Sherlock's hair, brushing it out of his eyes.

"And I think I know what happened" he said softly.

"Mmhm?"

"She asked about Molly and Mrs Hudson. How Molly is her Aunt and Harry is her Aunt, but only Harry is my sister. And how Mrs Hudson is her Nana, if she isn't my mother. I told her that we are a family of people who chose each other, instead of being born in one. That Molly is her Aunt, because Molly wants to be her Aunt and because Rosie loves Molly. And that Nana is almost like a grandmother even if she is not my actual mother, simply because the two of them want it to be so. And that Greg and Mike and your brother are her uncles, because she decided she loves them and they love her."

He pursed his lips, watching John's face as it softened.

"So when she said that I'm her Papa and that's only our own thing and nobody else's..."

"She made a natural extension of the rule" John's voice broke a little bit. "I told her, in each case, that it is something both sides have to agree on - that's why I was... I thought you didn't want to, and then..."

"I do" he said quickly, turning slightly to face John better. "I really, really do, John. We can talk about it with Rosie and lay down the rules - she calls me by my name anyway, so if we ask her to keep this somewhat secret, nobody needs to know..."

_Uh-oh._

The Watson frown, emerging.

"If you wish, we can" John _sighed_ , as if...

_Disappointed?_

_But with what..._

"You _don't_ want to keep this secret?" he blurted out.

"I said you were smart" John quipped, but there was no smile behind it, only a certain level of apprehension. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Well, not everyone wishes to advertise that they are co-parenting with their slightly unhinged flatmate, for one."

"Dull."

"You may want to find someone and it would look weird..."

"Sherlock, stop" John leaned slightly closer. "Now, read my lips. There is nobody. I'm not finding anyone. I'm not _looking_ for anyone. This is it. End of line. I... I don't want to."

"But, one day... Rosie will need female influence in her life."

"Molly, Mrs Hudson. Even Harry."

"Confidante. Girls talk to their..."

"Mothers. Yes. But if they don't have them, they talk to their aunts - see above - or their fathers create an inclusive atmosphere at home and invite such confidences."

"She will ask about Mary."

"She will ask about her anyway. It's not like any new girlfriend would replace... And I'm very much _not looking_. Really. I mean it. Got married once, thank you, not my thing."

"You could find someone who is _not_ an internationally wanted assassin."

"I could also not look for anyone and live happily here, with the two of you."

And he _meant_ it. John honestly meant what he was saying.

John honestly didn't mind.

Even more.

John _wanted_ this situation to be public. To be official.

_Oh._

He pulled John closer in an ungainly embrace.

"Thank you" he whispered into the greying blonde hair. "I never thought I would have a family, or that I would _want_ one. I never imagined being a _parent_."

"Well, you are now" there was something of a smile in that voice. "You are a bloody good father, Sherlock Holmes. The best Papa Rosie could ever have."

"I'm going to spoil her," he warned John somewhat half-heartedly.

"You would anyway."

"I will show her weird things through the microscope."

"Show her some puddle water, it will make her wash her hands more often."

"My parents will probably demand visiting rights."

"Your parents are lovely."

"I want to teach her things."

"As long as these things don't explode."

"No, an exploding pony would not be good."

There was something a bit watery in John's laugh.

"But we don't need our own pony, do we?"

"No, no. Maybe, someday, but definitely not now."

"Then it's fine."

"Music lessons?"

"Absolutely."

"Dancing?"

"If she wants to. I reserve the right to sign her up for a football club."

"As long as it's not baseball."

They stood silently, tangled in the hug, just breathing slowly.

"Better now?" John's hand patted his shoulder cautiously. "I'm sorry I didn't catch this brewing earlier. We could have had a civilised discussion and you wouldn't have been left with this for two full days..."

"It's... much improved. Now that we talked."

"OK. Fine. Do you want to lie down, at least until the food is here? I meant it about that nap. You've been up since Wednesday and your body will demand retribution soon."

"I..." he found himself blinking and even shivering a bit. Stress down, adrenaline down, relief settling in. Time to rest.

The pillow was fluffed up, the blanket was pulled over his exhausted, chilled form.

And there was a pair of lips pressed into his temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can find me on tumblr.](https://srebrnafh.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Or visit my blog.](https://fanfik.wordpress.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello,
> 
> Thank you for making it that far!  
> This is my one of my bigger stories and I'm thankful to everyone who managed to read it. I have a small request to you however - a tiny thing that will help me improve, hopefully.  
> I am taking a writing course and one of the tasks is to ask my readers to describe my writing style in 3 adjectives. I'd be grateful if you could provide this kind of feedback :)  
> (if you provided it already somewhere else - THANK YOU! :))
> 
> Find me on [my tumblr](https://srebrnafh.tumblr.com/).  
> [My writing blog.](https://fanfik.wordpress.com/)  
> [My handmade blog.](https://srebrna.wordpress.com/)
> 
> Regards
> 
> Srebrna F H


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